Party Crashers

it.
    "With Sammy, I don't know what to expect," Jolie said. "I forgot to mention that she came by today, too. Tried to give me a bribe."
    "For what?"
    "I think she's in trouble for a deal that went bad and she's afraid I'll be questioned."
    "Did you take the money?"
    "Of course not!"
    "You should have taken the cash and told the truth anyway. What's she going to do—fire you?"
    "I don't want to have anything to do with the woman's money...unless I have to go back and beg for a job. And after the spectacle I made of myself today, I might get fired from Neiman's."
    "So how is your brokerage business?"
    She flipped on her desktop computer so it could boot up while they talked. "Anonymous. But I'm sending out a mailing today to some of my former customers. And I'm meeting with a guy tomorrow who's looking for a house."
    "That sounds promising."
    "Uh-hm," she murmured casually.
    "Anyone I would know?"
    Because of her interior design connections, Leann knew almost everyone. "Er, possibly. Beck Underwood?"
    "Of Underwood Broadcasting? How on earth did you meet him?"
    "Remember I told you about running into a guy when I was carrying that armload of shoes my first day on the job?"
    "It was him ?"
    "It was him."
    "Wow, what a coup. I can't imagine what kind of a house he's going to buy."
    "Well, I don't have his business yet." She'd seen plenty of customers—especially wealthy ones—drop agents at the last minute to give their business to a buddy or to a buddy's wife, son, daughter, hairdresser.
    "Oh, Jolie, I hate to go, but I have to get ready for a doctor's appointment."
    "Sure," Jolie said. "Thanks for listening. Give your sister my best."
    "I will. Good luck with Beck Underwood, and have fun tonight."
    "Bye." Jolie hung up the phone reluctantly, conceding that she dreaded spending the afternoon alone. She leaned against the desk and surveyed her surroundings with an eye toward what Carlotta and Hannah would think when they arrived.
    The living room-slash-office, galley kitchen, breakfast area, all visible from where she stood. A sad collection of odd-lot furniture she had accumulated situated on gray builder-grade carpet. The layer of dust on every flat surface seemed to sum up her general mindset over the past few weeks, since Gary's...departure. Well, enough of that.
    She unearthed the feather duster and gave everything a good going over. In the bedroom, though, she paused at the sight of finger marks in the dust on the top of the bookcase that was built into the headboard. She swiped her own fingers in a dusty patch, and the marks were much smaller. Her neck prickled with unease.
    Had someone been in her apartment—in her bedroom—or had she somehow made the marks herself when she'd reshelved the books strewn around the apartment? She experimented again, this time putting her weight on her hand, and, to her relief, the impressions were more similar. She wiped away the marks, telling herself that she truly was becoming paranoid.
    After dusting and running her ancient vacuum cleaner, she looked around the small apartment where she'd lived for four years and tried not to feel depressed. Having worked in real estate for most of her adult life, she knew that the sooner she invested in a home, the better. Yet some small part of her resisted the idea of buying a home to live in alone. She had always envisioned that she and her husband would shop for a first home together. Between school loans and living expenses, she had managed to squirrel away a few thousand dollars, but when she'd opted to invest in her own brokerage firm, she had postponed owning a home for a while longer.
    Now she wondered if that hesitation had been some kind of unconscious decision to wait for Gary—or someone else—before buying a home.
    She shivered. The outside temperature had plummeted to an unseasonable low, and the apartment had acquired a distinct chill. Rebelling against turning on the heat in the middle of October, she donned jeans and a sweatshirt to work at her desk.
    To the tune of a smooth jazz station, she assembled a postcard mailing to a list of former clients, providing her new e-mail address and cell phone number if they had referrals. Sammy would probably shoot her if she caught her poaching clients, but Jolie reasoned that she had developed a relationship with the clients and had a right to ask for their future business. She welcomed the mindlessness of labeling and stamping the postcards. It was, she realized, the most